


Hangover

by MajorTrouble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Hangover, Tumblr Rec, silly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hangover

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny little Tumblr ficlet request by 221books: "You know what TSoT is missing? A scene where Sherlock is hungover, curled up around the toilet, vomiting as he curses humanity’s use of alcohol for anything other than the sterilization of lab and autopsy equipment.
> 
> "And he’s complaining petulantly that he’s dying, and John is just like drink your alka-seltzer and stfu as he nurses his own hangover."
> 
> I hope this will suffice :)

**Hangover (n.) - A severe headache or other after-effects caused by drinking an excess of alcohol.**

 

Something cold, almost soothing, was pressed against Sherlock’s forehead. It was relieving the pounding in his head just enough that coherent thoughts were beginning to drift up from the deep, dark, unrelentingly coherent corners of his mind.

 _What - exactly - was the point of all that?_  he thought.

 _What - exactly - did I do to deserve this?_  he thought, a bit louder this time.

 _What - exactly - was I thinking at the time?_  he thought, his thoughts reaching a volume that made him wince.

And finally,  _Where - the fuck - am I?_

He lifted one eyelid experimentally. Cool light was filtering through the door behind him. He could vaguely hear the sounds of pained moaning coming from the kitchen. Directly in front of him was the outline of smooth white porcelain.

Sherlock lifted his head sharply, immediately regretting the action and thumping it back down on the wood floor. The pounding intensified for a moment before settling itself back down. With the utmost care, he used his ragged senses to locate his arms and hands, placing the latter underneath himself to gain some sort of leverage. Slowly, gently, he raised himself up, turning around so his back was now pressed against the cooling side of the clawfoot tub.

He wrapped his overly long fingers across his head, wincing as he rubbed his temples. His mouth tasted of stale alcohol and cigarettes. As he slid his tongue around, trying to dislodge it and the horrible fuzziness, a wave of nausea overcame him and he quickly propelled himself forward, hands scrabbling against the sides of the toilet as he expelled bile from his stomach and into the bowl.

It was only then that the smell hit him. That was obviously not the first time he’d clutched and worshipped at the porcelain god. His stomach heaved again, making a valiant effort to push itself up and out of his throat. He forced one of his hands to flail for a moment through the air, finally catching on the handle and flushing the offensive materials away.

Gasping quietly with the effort, Sherlock pushed himself back to sitting against the tub, resuming his former position. He sat there for long moments, breathing heavily through his mouth in an effort to get his physiology back under control.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before a gentle tapping came at the door followed by a tentative and concerned, “Sherlock? You alright in there?”

“Oh god, John, I think I’m dying,” he grated out between clench teeth. “Alcohol should never be used for consumption! It produces undesirable results.”

The handle turned and John hoved into view, stumbling a bit against the door as he kept it from swinging into Sherlock’s overly long legs. “Ya, well, that’s just your opinion.”

“No, you don’t understand. From now on we’re never using it again unless it’s to clean glassware, and only then at a 98% solution,” he moaned, gripping the sides of his head as if they were about to split apart. Judging from the pounding coming from inside, he estimated that there was a 0.2% possibility that that might actually happen.

Above him, John chuckled dryly. “You’re not the only one.” Sherlock tilted his head to look up at his flatmate, noticing the ruddy colour to his skin and the dilated pupils as well as the wince of pain as he moved his head.

But the other was standing, which Sherlock was quite convinced was beyond him and would be for some time. He moaned again, bringing his legs up to his chest so he could wrap his arms around them and rest his aching head down on his knees. “John, seriously, I think I’m dying. This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. You’re a doctor! Surely there must be something you can do?” He knew he was sounding petulant and needy, like a small child, but not one part of him could care.

“Yes, well, fine,” John grumbled.

Without lifting his head, he could hear John shuffling back down the hallway to thump around some more in the kitchen. Two glasses clinked against the counter, causing Sherlock to wince. The tap turned on and off, and there was a faint fizzing sound that grew louder as John’s heavy footsteps dragged back towards the bathroom.

“Here, drink this, and shut up,” John’s gruff voice said from above him. He raised his head, blinking in the half-light at the glass John was holding out. “There’s no sense moaning about it all now.”

With slow, controlled movements, Sherlock accepted the glass, eyeing the contents skeptically before sipping delicately. He frowned. “You think a simple mix of aspirin, citric acid, and sodium hydrogen carbonate is going to save me? I’m dying, John!”

John stared at him again before lifting his own glass and swallowing it down in one go. “Well, cheers then. See you in hell.”


End file.
